


Atticus

by kodavista



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: M/M, Minor Original Character, how do you tag, just eliot being himself and quentin still liking him, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:58:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7989271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kodavista/pseuds/kodavista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How about I find you, and I don't say magic is real, but I do seduce you, and so lift your spirits that life retains its sparkle for decades,” Eliot says desperately, strained smile on his face.</p>
<p>“Yeah, that sounds nice. Thank you,” Quentin responds absently, shifting his books so his left arm stopped tingling.</p>
<p>----</p>
<p>Or the AU where Quentin actually gets kicked out of Brakebills and Eliot keeps his promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atticus

**Author's Note:**

> i'm honestly not 100% happy with this but i tried. it's not meant to be a full-fledged fic so ?? also, not beta'ed. i needed a beta tbh. all mistakes are mine. i'm alone in this hell.

_“How about I find you, and I don't say magic is real, but I do seduce you, and so lift your spirits that life retains its sparkle for decades,” Eliot says desperately, strained smile on his face._

_“Yeah, that sounds nice. Thank you,” Quentin responds absently, shifting his books so his left arm stopped tingling._

Quentin awoke, light streaming through his still open windows and the fading memory of a tall man with curly hair from his dreams. Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, Quentin sighs and plays with a loose piece of red thread on the ugly rug beneath his feet. The previous night, he and his parents enjoyed a celebratory dinner when they discovered he'd been accepted to Yale, Princeton, and Cornell University but Quentin couldn't muster up the enthusiasm his parents had. He was proud, yes, and certainly relieved he now had his pick of schools but everything felt wrong. Something was missing. Ignoring the weight that threatened to pull him back into bed and not let him leave, he begrudgingly made his way downstairs to start the day.

————

Eventually, Quentin settled on Yale. The campus piqued his interest, a mix between city and suburb he couldn't find anywhere else, and the proximity to home ensured he could always visit. Admittedly, he didn’t want to move too far from Julia- especially with what his mother had told him before he left.

_“She’s not alright, Quentin. She didn’t choose a college and her parents are worried. It’d be nice for you to visit her, for her to see a familiar face,” but Quentin didn’t know what he could even say to Julia so he decided to not speak to her at all._

Despite it all, routine took over quickly. Most of his classes were between 8 AM and 2 PM, which left just enough time for him work at the local sandwich shop, Atticus, for a few hours before retiring to the dorm. Friends were hard to come by; between Julia disappearing and losing contact with James, though, Quentin wasn’t sure he had the energy to interact socially. His parents warned him about overloading himself the first year and so he signed up for random classes (including one third year Gender Studies course and the new Myths, Mysticisms, and Rituals class), a hollow Undecided sitting next to the category ‘Major’ on his transcripts. Saturdays, 1-2 pm, are reserved for his mandatory ( _“Honey, it’ll be good for you- to make sure you transition properly,” his mother cooed, a soft hand cradling his cheek.)_ meeting with the therapist just 25 minutes outside of campus. Which is primarily why Quentin ends up working for Atticus. The false facade of scraping by convincing family and therapist alike that maybe he can adapt to new situations without admitting himself to a mental hospital again.

"What can I get for you today?" he asks, eyes glued firmly on the register, waiting for the customer to prattle off their order before moving on.

"What would you suggest, Quentin?" the customer asks and Quentin's head snaps up. Before him is a tall, slim man with a cocky grin plastered on his face and eyebrows raised seductively. Quentin looks at him, eyes wide and mind racing a mile a minute.

"C-cafe americano," he stutters, remembering the order of the short, Cuban girl before this customer walked in and shifting his eyes to the register.

"I'll have that, then," the man says simply and when Quentin sneaks a glance as he walks out, the man seems troubled.

————

“How do you like working at Atticus?” his therapist asks, breaking the silence. Quentin shifts in the stiff seat, eyes darting around the room and purposely avoiding the therapist. His mom found Dr. Williams through the school, despite his begging they keep the details of his ‘episode’, as his mom calls it, quiet. His eyes fix on the inspirational posters plastered to the wall; a photo of a cat hanging from a tree branch, optimistically telling him to ‘hang in there’, and he wonders why someone would willingly take a job creating, designing, and selling such cheesy posters.

“Good,” he murmurs, eyes shifting to watch Dr. Williams scribble a note onto her pad. She smiles at him, crows feet becoming more prominent, and sets her pad down on the small table beside her chair. Most sessions go slowly; Quentin forcing out short answers while Dr. Williams looks kindly at him, occasionally jotting down notes. He imagines they say something akin to _‘Answered “good” instead of “fine” today’_  and _’Spoke in the first 5 minutes of session beginning, instead of the first 15’_ but he’s never asked; doesn’t care much to, if he’s honest.

Pulling his sleeves awkwardly over his knuckles, Quentin sighs, “There’s this customer who comes by sometimes. He seems familiar but I can’t be sure. He’s nice,” he finishes speaking quietly, shrugging his shoulders slightly.

“That’s great, Quentin!” she says, smiling wider and leaning forward to bridge the gap between their seats. Instantly, Quentin knows she’ll read too much into it, “So you’ve made friends? That’s really wonderful.”

He regrets mentioning anything about the mystery customer as soon as the words leave his mouth, “I guess,” and that’s the most he says for that session.

— — — —

Part of the reason Quentin enjoys the job at the shop so much is the people. When his break rolls around, Quentin sits by the last table lining the glass walls, carefully hidden behind some bookshelves, and stares outside. Couples cross the street, shifting closer together for warmth in the late October chill, and leaves swirl on the pavement while Quentin nurses a hot chocolate, lost in his thoughts. Autumn always remained his favorite season. The bell signaling a new customer goes off and Quentin looks up to find his customer- Eliot, he reminds himself- who’s been pestering him every week, walking in and pulling off his burgundy scarf. Ducking his head, Quentin takes another sip of his drink, hoping the man in question doesn’t look over.

Quentin isn’t sure why he tries so hard to avoid Eliot. Part of him thinks it’s the exaggerated flirting, all seductive smirks and lingering touches as he hands over payment and takes the coffee, but the other part of him feels like Eliot is too familiar and that familiarity scares him. So he’s taken to scheduling breaks when he knows Eliot might walk into the shop but that doesn’t stop the pang of guilt that overwhelms him when Eliot leaves Atticus, a frown marring his handsome face.

Later that night, staring up at the popcorn ceiling and steadfastly ignoring his roommate's loud snoring, Quentin realizes the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach when Eliot flirts with him isn’t in disgust but rather attraction. He spends 15 minutes trying to convince himself it’s a lie (he still loves Julia, right?) before giving up. If the next morning he makes a double shot espresso to replace the sleep he missed, well, no one except him has to know.

————

Despite his awkwardness, Quentin thinks he manages the first semester of his freshman year in college fairly well. Besides the extreme lack of sleep and an unhealthy obsession with the man who asks him for a new coffee suggestion every Sunday morning, Quentin is functioning. Classes breeze by, finals end, and the semester wraps up with a few weeks break for the holidays. Quentin looks up at the clock on the cafe's wall, anxiously waiting for the last hour of his shift to pass. Both his parents asked him to spend his first break at home, attempting to convince him with the news Julia had moved back in with her parents. Truthfully, he doesn't want to see her. After she disappeared, not bothering to say goodbye, he spent most days busying himself so as not to think about how much he missed her. He couldn’t blame her; he refused to even text her before moving for college but he had wanted to call her. Being forced to interact with Julia again, when they were both still hurt, seemed like a bad idea but both their parents were dead set on it.

"What's it going to be today, Q? Just make it cold," Eliot says with a smirk, leaning on the counter.

"Salted caramel frappé?" Quentin blushes, hand reaching out for a cup. At first, he's bothered by Eliot constantly asking for a new suggestion of coffee- and really, he thinks, how could someone be comfortable changing their order so often?- but after the 5th time, Quentin accepts he may as well just play along. The flirting that came with the order, though, Quentin didn't mind. After spending most of high school (more like his entire childhood, the self-deprecating voice in Quentin's mind supplies) pining after Julia, finding someone else to set his sights on flooded Quentin with relief.

"Then I'll take that," the smile Eliot gives him floods him with warmth and Quentin can't help but return the gesture.

While Quentin is busy scribbling his name onto the cup and moving over to start on the coffee, Eliot asked, “What are you doing for break?”

“My parents want me to go home,” he shrugs in response. Eliot hums softly, fiddling with a stray sugar packet left on the counter, “It’s not going to be much fun,” Quentin continues, “but they want to check up on me and make sure I’m adapting. They’re worried I’m going to go insane.”

Eliot gives him a sad, knowing look making Quentin desperately wishing to take back what he said as he’s placing the coffee on the counter between them. Tilting his head, Eliot’s smirk returns and he gently places a strip of paper on the counter, “Then maybe I’ll give you my number so you can escape from all the maudlin blah of daily life.”

Stunned, Quentin stares, but by the time the words register Eliot is gone and the small strip of paper sits, unassumingly, in front of him; a ten digit number scrawled out messily with a smiley face next to it.


End file.
